William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

her lips.
    “She is not afraid of him, of that I am certain. But there is a deep emotion there which has a bitterness to it, and I think he is more afraid of her—but I don’t know if that has anything to do with Octavia’s death or is simply that she has the power to hurt him.”
    She took a deep breath. “It must be extremely difficult for him, living in his father-in-law’s house and in a very real way being under his jurisdiction and constantly obliged to please him or face very considerable unpleasantness. And Sir Basil does seem to rule with a heavy hand, from what I have seen.” She sat sideways on the arm of one of the chairs, an attitude which would have sent Mrs. Willis into a rage, both for its unladylike pose and for the harm she was sure it would do to the chair.
    “I have not seen much of Mr. Thirsk or Mrs. Sandeman yet. She leads quite a busy life, and perhaps I am maligning her, but I am sure she drinks. I have seen enough of it in the war to recognize the signs, even in highly unlikely people. I saw her yesterday morning with a fearful headache which, from the pattern of her recovery, was not any ordinary illness. But I may be hasty; I only met her on the landing as I was going in to Lady Moidore.”
    He smiled very slightly. “And what do you think of Lady Moidore?”
    Every vestige of humor vanished from her face. “I think she is very frightened. She knows or believes something whichis so appalling that she dare not confront it, yet neither can she put it from her mind—”
    “That it was Myles Kellard who killed Octavia?” he asked, stepping forward a pace. “Hester—be careful!” He took her arm and held it hard, the pressure of his fingers so strong as to be almost painful. “Watch and listen as your opportunities allow, but do not ask anything! Do you hear me?”
    She backed away, rubbing her arm. “Of course I hear you. You requested me to help—I am doing so. I have no intention of asking any questions—they would not answer them anyway but would dismiss me for being impertinent and intrusive. I am a servant here.”
    “What about the servants?” He did not move away but remained close to her. “Be careful of the menservants, Hester, particularly the footmen. It is quite likely one of them had amorous ideas about Octavia, and misunderstood”—he shrugged—“or even understood correctly, and she got tired of the affair—”
    “Good heavens. You are no better than Myles Kellard,” she snapped at him. “He all but implied Octavia was a trollop.”
    “It is only a possibility!” he hissed sharply. “Keep your voice down. For all we know there may be a row of eavesdroppers at the door. Does your bedroom have a lock?”
    “No.”
    “Then put a chair behind the handle.”
    “I hardly think—” Then she remembered that Octavia Haslett had been murdered in her bedroom in the middle of the night, and she found she was shaking in spite of herself.
    “It is someone in this house!” Monk repeated, watching her closely.
    “Yes,” she said obediently. “Yes, I know that. We all know that—that is what is so terrible.”

6
    H
ESTER LEFT
her interview with Monk considerably chastened. Seeing him again had reminded her that this was not an ordinary household, and the difference of opinion, the quarrels, which seemed a trivial nastiness, in one case had been so deep they had led to violent and treacherous death. One of those people she looked at across the meal table, or passed on the stairs, had stabbed Octavia in the night and left her to bleed.
    It made her a little sick as she returned to Beatrice’s bedroom and knocked on the door before entering. Beatrice was standing by the window staring out into the remains of the autumn garden and watching the gardener’s boy sweeping up the fallen leaves and pulling a few last weeds from around the Michaelmas daisies. Arthur, his hair blowing in the wind, was helping with the solemnity of a ten-year-old. Beatrice turned as Hester came in, her face pale, her eyes wide and anxious.
    “You look distressed,” she said, staring at Hester. She walked over to the dressing chair but did not sit, as if the chair would imprison her and she desired the freedom to move suddenly. “Why did the police want to see you? You weren’t here when—when Tavie was killed.”
    “No, Lady Moidore.” Hester’s mind raced for a reason which would be believed, and perhaps which might even prompt Beatrice to yield something of the fear